


Do Demons Dream of Falling?

by AJfanfic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Blood, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Gen, Graphic Violence, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 05:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic
Summary: Crowley has nightmares of the fall, and also some mental health issues.





	Do Demons Dream of Falling?

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags, this could pretty easily be triggering. It's basically just me projecting intrusive thoughts into Crowley's dreams. Helpful to write, but possibly upsetting to read!

Crowley dreams. He doesn’t know if other demons do too. If they do, he bets their dreams start the same way his do. With falling. Never from Heaven, exactly, he can never see Heaven in his dreams. Just its absence. He’s somewhere in deep space and the stars are blinking out around him. They erupt into flame, writhing and burning with brilliant color and a screaming that splits his head. He wonders if he looks as beautiful with his flames as they do and doubts it. There’s nothing below him but he feels the impact. His wings shatter, a thousand shards piercing delicate skin in a mockery of the white feathers that cling to him stubbornly. His brackish blood burns like acid and he knows, he knows that it will never wash clean. His rib cage is collapsing, bones twisting free of his pulverized spine and reforming a tighter cage around his heart. He feels the cosmos he was crushed vicelike into something so so much smaller and he burns within his skin. He doesn’t fit doesn’t belong here has to get out and his blunted nails carve into the flesh of his forearm. Blood slicks his grip but his flesh pulls away like the skin of a rotten apple. He thinks it’s almost beautiful, the way the muscles in his arm pull like piano strings. He comes apart until his own hands until he sees bone and his arm is motionless, grasping for something that isn’t there. The burning aching gnawing feeling persists. He sinks his teeth into his remaining arm and he gags on blood, too sweet and hot. It’s messy and savage and when he can’t hold his arm to his face any longer he twists his head to spit bile into the nothingness that surrounds him. He feels like he should look romantic, his hair should pool around him like his blood. It should look be tragic. It doesn’t, and he opens his mouth to scream that this is wrong to the parent that cast him out, that he should get some satisfaction after all of this but he can’t find the words and Crowley wakes up choking. He rakes his nails along the soft skin of his arm and breathes into the burning. He doesn’t think that other demons dream.


End file.
